Destane's Lessons
by bestia
Summary: Destane gives Mozenrath a new chance to learn
1. Lesson One: Cold

Mozenrath gasped for air as the chain around his bound hands pulled him above the surface of the water. His lungs burned, his feet scrabbling against the glass surface of the tank to hold him there so he might possible get enough time to gain his breath. He heard a crisp snap of someone's fingers, and the chain dropped him back into the water, letting out a cry of dismay before he was lost to the inky blackness.

From his position, Destane watched intently, sipping his drink idly as his apprentice thrashed in the water, desperately trying to reach the surface without the aid of his hands, the ineffectual-ness of his actions proving exhaustion was taking it's toll. To his right, a mamluck stood with the end of the chain that ran high into the air and through a pulley attached to the ceiling. The chain then traveled a taunt line into the water, attached firmly to the chain that kept Mozenrath's hands wrenched behind his back, jerking him up for air just when Destane could see Mozenrath's eyes glaze over with the beginnings of unconsciousness, then dropping him back into the water to struggle when he was expecting it the least.

Destane had changed strategies.

When he had first begun, when Mirage first dropped this stolen child of indeterminable origin at his doorstep for tutoring in magic, he knew exactly what he'd take from him. In the beginning, it had been all about Destane's pleasure, despite the kid's screams and cries, resistance and horror. But things changed, as his young apprentice got older, got used to being a toy of his master's whim. He almost became numb, burying his head into his studies and research, becoming a fairly good sorcerer. But where there is knowledge, there is confidence, and confidence breeds rebellion. If it was to be believed, and Destane didn't at the time, Mozenrath grew the audacity to act like he was scornful of Destane, and emit such a hate for his master that Destane could feel it. It was just he wasn't afraid of Destane any more; he'd experienced all of the tortures Destane had to offer. After awhile, he began to not be affected by strikes and visits to Destane's bed.

That's when Destane decided that burying his cock in that tight little ass wasn't enough. He'd make the boy look to him for everything, for mercy, support, comfort and care. He'd make him totally dependable on Destane. Destane would become everything to him, life, relief and total domination.

Lesson One: Cold.

Mozenrath had been stripped, bound and lead to the main throne room. There, Destane had a huge, rectangular prism, almost like an eerily human size aquarium had been set up on a platform under the pulley. And in it, was water Destane had taken from the coldest depths of the ocean via magic. Mozenrath saw with astonishment that sheets of ice still floated on the surface. It was dark blue-black, filling the large room in shifting light patterns on every available surface. Mozenrath sensed what was to happen, and resisted, but Destane got his way, and the lesson began.

Where shock once was, Mozenrath now knew he was fighting for his life, fear etched on his face with wild desire to live as he fought his way to the surface, to yell, if only for a moment,

"Please!" before he was sucked back under.

Destane smiled in approval and snapped his fingers once more, nodding at his mamluck. Slowly, the zombie-like soldier pulled on the chain, lifting Mozenrath clear from the water, his white skin almost glowing against the blackness of the room as shivering and miserable, sucking in air like it was the first he'd ever had privilege to breathe, he was lowered to his feet. Obediently, the mamluck, without compassion or care, opinion or emotion, unhooked the chain from the Mozenrath's wrist manacles, and then too removed those. He stepped back, seeing the look of dismissal on Destane's face, leaving Mozenrath shivering and clutching himself in a desperate pursuit of warmth from his own body.

Mozenrath knew, however hopeful his desires were, that running from the room to try and locate his clothes and Allah forbid a towel would be futile and probably result in more punishment. So he stood, whole body wracked in shakes, hopping from one foot to the other, trying to still the chattering in his teeth as Destane casually approached, swirling his drink in his hand as he stopped to look Mozenrath over. His apprentice tried to meet his gaze, but looked away in shame of his own state, knowing he looked pitiful waiting for a bit of mercy at Destane's command.

The corners of Destane's mouth twitched as he watched Mozenrath's lips turn a slight blue and it became hard to maintain balance he was shivering so hard, quaking. The drafts and inner winds of the Citadel were merciless and licked with cruelty around the pale, thin figure of his student.

But Destane had to admit, even in this state, Mozenrath was impressive looking. His thick, slightly curled hair dripped down into his face, complimenting the almost black color of his large eyes. A Roman-esque nose and high cheekbones, giving him a regal look in any other circumstance, accompanied this. He had a long, graceful looking neck, one that, in Destane's opinion, begged to be marred by bruising. He tucked away that thought for later. From there, the young sorcerer's body was all lean and sharp angles, pretty collarbone, light, flirty pink nipples on a boyish looking chest, a concave stomach. Hips that could cut paper led to a shy nether region, a modest manhood dusted in curly black hair, ball sac tucked from his view as Mozenrath huddled into himself. His soft white thighs were generous, and if Destane had his opinion, which he did, Mozenrath was all legs, long, graceful, almost dancer legs leading to delicate ankles and small feet. His was a body meant to be prone underneath Destane's, wailing and arching, curls spread out like a painting on a white pillow as Destane pounded him into the mattress at his leisure.

He was brought back to the present when a small noise of unhappiness brought his eyes up to Mozenrath, who he could tell now was truly suffering.

"M-M-master, p-p-please, I'm cold".

Destane arched an eyebrow, "You're cold, hmm? Well what you like me to do about it, little kitten?"

Mozenrath's Adams apple bobbed in total dejection as he strained to get his words out clearly.

"P-p-please, let m-m-me get...dressed."

"Oh but you don't need your clothes to get warm, little kitten, your solution is right here."

He waited as a still shaking Mozenrath processed his words, wondering until he finally took stock of what Destane was wearing. The Lord of The Black Sands was dressed in thick, heavy robes of velvet that hung in bounty on his frame with his cloak of the same material. Clothes, Mozenrath's cold numbed mind told him, were just about the warmest he'd seen. He looked up in pleading and question. Destane met his gaze with a warm smile, holding his arms out. Resentment and pride made Mozenrath hesitate for only a moment before he flung himself into his master's embrace, making a noise of miserable knowledge of what he had done ripping from his throat as he desperately clung to the front of Destane's robes, pushing and pulling the fabric towards him, greedily needing the infinite warmth the man gave off like air. He pressed his body close, Destane's arms wrapping around him and pulling him compliantly close as Mozenrath buried his head in his chest. With a sly look, his hands wandered down the other's body, clutching his apprentice's buttocks in a covetous grip. Mozenrath rose of his feet, stiffening until Destane murmured comfortingly into his ear,

"Let me make you warmer"

He paused, waiting for a reaction, and when he got no resistance, lifted Mozenrath clear off his feet, pulling the cloak around him to shield him from cold and curious glances. Mozenrath's legs locked around the other's middle, holding on and hating himself for his weakness, but he was still shaking, and still so desolately freezing. Destane laid him down carefully on the couch of his choice, draping himself across him, a strong thigh between Mozenrath's legs. Mozenrath thought he knew what was coming, so he was startled when Destane's lips touched his neck, sucking and kissing and licking almost worshipfully. Mozenrath sighed, his master's mouth was hot on his cold skin, and it felt shamefully good. His head fell back, offering total surrender. Destane grinned against his skin, traveling down the other's neck and chest until he suddenly bit an already pebbled nipple. Mozenrath yelped, a hot blush spreading across his body, and it felt better.

Destane's busy mouth traveled down with precision and plan until Mozenrath rose to meet him needily, grateful for any warmth. With any warning to his sensation-drunk student, he took a hesitantly half-aroused erection into his mouth. Mozenrath wailed, nails becoming claws as he tried to escape, embarrassment further warming his body. But as if to mock him, he got harder in his master's mouth and relaxed into the ministrations with tears in his eyes. His breath came in sobs as he was brought closer and closer to the edge, delayed each time when Destane would squeeze the base of his erection, preventing it. At a tactful moment, Destane's fingers wandered down in-between the wantonly spread legs of his younger partner, encircling and teasing an entrance he had possessed many times.

Mozenrath's mouth fell open as busy fingers entered him, stretching and preparing with shocking tenderness and patience. To spite him, it seemed, his body reacted eagerly, rising to meet Destane's hand, body aching for something more substantial. Destane pulled back with a pleased smile, setting his pants and undergarments aside. Mozenrath's mind reeled as Destane sat on his knees, lifting Mozenrath's hips for ready penetration.

Destane...had won.

He howled as he was filled when Destane thrust home, hitting with precise accuracy a nerve bundle inside of him that made his eyes fly open wide and sparks dance inside him and out. Destane kept up a merciless rhythm, one Mozenrath's body needed as he met each plunge into his body. Tears ran hot down his face, as fully warm and dying in side with shame and betrayal, he came for the first time since Destane had started taking him.

Destane grunted as he came into the still body beneath him, finger's gripping and pulling the tender skin at Mozenrath's hips to form flowering bruises. He looked into the devastated face of his trainee, and watched the thought process develop in his mind.

He had learned to accept pleasure from Destane, pleasure and comfort Destane now proved would come.

Lesson one is over.


	2. Lesson Two: The Set Up

Destane surveyed the table with approval.

The tall, ceiling climbing windows poured in golden light, and the late morning dazzle caught the crystal glasses perfectly. The porcelain plates were polished, and gleaming gold trays climbed over nearly every surface of the rich gleam of his elegant dining room table. Naturally, his kitchen staff members were somewhat confused; the master usually saved the grand dining room for special occasions, ambassador dinners, visiting relatives, power meetings…

But to true to their training they had laid out a meal fit for the most lavish of royalty. Plump, fire cracked pheasant, bowls upon bowls of caramel fruit, candied dates, steaming loves of fresh bread and butter, containers full of spicy rice and beans with just the right amount of heat. Puddings, pastries, sweets so delicately spun they trembled with the smallest draft. Nothing was spared. Destane's cup brimmed with deep, rich wine.

To an onlooker, however, the scene would seem strange. Destane sat alone for the time being in an ornately wrought, high backed chair, only one of the numerous that surrounded the table. But Destane himself, was unconcerned; indeed he even smiled as he cut himself modest portions.

"Good morning Mozenrath."

His protégée stopped as he entered the room, obliged to recognize Destane, and Destane pleased to return the favor. Mozenrath was still the breath of beauty he always seemed to his sovereign. His curls were loose and mussed from sleep as he had yet to have the time to restrain them with cord. He certainly looked like he just awoke. His cheeks were pinkened, his eyes soft, a charm that would fade as the day went on, a time Mozenrath would take to sharpen himself, physically and emotionally.

But for now he seemed at least modestly unguarded. The corners of Destane's mouth quirked as he realized Mozenrath was still barefoot and in his sleep clothes. The Citadel's cold certainly didn't bother him.

Mozenrath eyed Destane warily, before he replied civilly.

"Good morning, Master."

Was his little kitten still displeased with him since his last lesson? He had sought to teach Mozenrath. He wasn't an entirely cruel man. If Mozenrath would come to him, he could provide what his student needed: advice, comfort, bodily pleasures. Though Mozenrath had balked quite heartily at first, it seemed his little lesson had sunk in. Mozenrath was…relaxing, if fraction by painful fraction.

Did he realize all the liberties Destane was gradually allowing?

Mozenrath could sleep in, as long as he completed his studies in time, and he was so _very_ fond of sleeping in. Destane didn't mind; he loved looking in on a slumbering Mozenrath, treasuring all the little expressions he made, the various sensual phases he slipped in and out of unknowingly.

"Sleep well?"

Destane never could help himself. He took a bite from his plate and hoped he'd remember to encourage his servants on the savory quality of their food. Excellent.

Mozenrath's mouth tightened almost unnoticeably as he rinsed his hands off at the basin kept at a smaller table. It seemed as if he was torn between sarcasm and safety. He settled on a perfectly mild,

"Yes, thank you, Master."

Destane smiled again. "Good."

The sound of his silverware's gentle clinking against the plate was a pleasant noise in such a large room. He watched as Mozenrath lifted one superior, thin, black brow in confusion at such an extravagant spread. He knew all too well Destane was prone to eccentricities, so he refrained from commenting.

"Please, sit, Mozenrath," Destane said conversationally, "We have a late start this morning and we still have yet to finish the runes decoding."

Mozenrath's reply was crisp. _This _was something he was comfortable with. He paused, though, before sitting, to pull his black, undulating mass of hair up away from his face. 'Pity,' Destane thought.

"I've marked where we left off yesterday, Master, hopefully the inscriptions will be easier to decipher today. The tomes seem to have suffered some weathering."

"I suspected that as well. Perhaps a chemical bath?"

Mozenrath pulled out his chair. Of course, he had chosen the seat at the severest opposite from Destane. But Destane was unbothered; one cannot build temples without foundations.

Mozenrath seemed already consumed with his academics, his brow furrowed as mentally he problem solved. A small noise of thought was his only reply. In matters of the heart and the body, Mozenrath was both unsure and intimidated, but Destane could not ask for a more dedicated student. This young sorcerer-to-be was one of the most motivated Destane had the opportunity to teach magic to.

True, Mozenrath sometimes set impossible standards for himself, but he was right in taking Mozenrath on. His was a complex mind that constantly hummed underneath a neutral, alabaster exterior. He had already learned concepts and skills far beyond his age, and hungered for more.

But as involved and distant as he seemed, Destane knew Mozenrath's eyes did not fail to take in the fact that all his favorite dishes were present. Destane suspected he was highly surprised, actually. The dark, fleshy fruit so hard to find in the desert, the curry infused flatbread Mozenrath would choose above nearly anything else to eat. They sat, warm, inviting, steaming…

"If you do not believe a chemical bath will be too damaging…"he mused, reaching to grasp a serving spoon, only to stop at the clear crack of Destane's voice.

"One moment, little kitten, if you will."

The effect from Destane's use of his nickname was near instantaneous. Mozenrath's face darkened, steeled, his shoulders tensed, and his hand froze on the silver handle that curled elegantly into his smooth, bare palm.

"Yes master?"

"Oh, you will not be eating this morning." Destane remarked casually.

Mozenrath was good at mastering his emotions, but even he could not hide the blazoning confusion. There was a tense moment in which Mozenrath's hand did not remove itself, even if he did eventually sit back.

Destane took a drink from his glass. The wine was warming and full, but with enough of nut under-taste to make it perfect for the early day's meal.

"There's a glass of water there for you," he instructed, "You'll drink that in place of your morning meal."

Mozenrath turned, and there it was, poised by his silverware, a tall, ordinary, unimposing glass of water. Contrasted by the excesses of the rest of the table, it seemed almost ridiculous in its simplicity. He felt somehow ignorant by even curling his fingers about the stout steam.

So.

Destane was finishing his own meal as Mozenrath finally took his glass in his hand and tipped the contents back. Destane was no fool; Mozenrath made as if he had swallowed, but he knew Mozenrath was holding it in his mouth, waiting. Did Destane indeed poison him once and for all, he knew Mozenrath wondered. Of course not, that wasn't the point, now was it.

He finally, genuinely swallowed. His confusion only seemed to compound as he discovered it was just that…plain water.

Destane smoothly pushed back from the table and laid his napkin in his seat. As he passed Mozenrath still sitting in his chair, he paused to lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Drink up, little kitten. The help needs to get in here and clean soon, you wouldn't want to hold them up."

He stayed only long enough to tuck a loose curl behind Mozenrath's ear and left.


End file.
